


and this dark soil

by Vivian



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erlkönig even tho no alders in that forest, First Time, Love, M/M, Manipulation, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, and my boner for Goethe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16694137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: Grindelwald takes Credence to Nurmengard.





	and this dark soil

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't contain myself and started writing this straight after having seen it in the cinema. Unbeta'd so far because my love has not watched the movie yet (should they want to beta this).  
> I still disapprove of the casting choice for Grindelwald, but I did like how he was _written_ in the movie. And of course the ending. So. Here we go, fellas.  
> Spoilers for Crimes of Grindelwald ahead.

Grindelwald takes him to the darkling forests of Austria, over the jagged ranges of the alps, through valleys shrouded in the gossamers of fog, until at last they reach Nurmengard. Pines and oaks crowd the way to its ascend under a sky that looks flatter and older than anything he’s ever seen. Wind rushes through the branches, whispering, howling, ever present. The paling yellow of the autumnal pines douses the world and blends into the anthracites of approaching night. Voices echo in the wind, a beckoning from the boughs that bow and crack and break. A sprite treads these paths, a gnarled, tall creature, paler than morrow, king in his own right, known to bestow fevers upon children. So Grindelwald tells him and keeps him close. But his presence holds a different, more tender kind of danger. He knows this, and fears him. The touch of his hand and his caress, the crinkle at his eyes when he smiles. He can’t trust him, but he wants to, it’s a pull in his chest, as gentle as a sharp knife, and love—

 _My boy_ , he says. _We have arrived._

They exit the carriage. Nurmengard’s silhouette cuts into the sky, a monolith on the edge of a cliff. It looks as if the world ends behind it. Grindelwald’s warm hand on his shoulder, urging him onward. Queenie steps onto the stirrup of the carriage and he offers his hand clumsily. She takes it with a smile, then her heels sink into the muddy ground with a squelch while she braces herself on his arm.

 _Thank you sweetheart,_ she lilts. She can read his thoughts, he knows, but she’s never used it against him.

Together the three of them walk towards Nurmengard, and the fortress’ doors gape open, inviting them to its black innards. They enter.

Grey skies tower over the mountains, tumultuous with the brood of storm.

Fires blaze in all the rooms whose doors aren’t locked. His room, and a room they share, the baths, the kitchen. House elves tattle in the latter, busy with cutting vegetables and stewing soup. There’s wine, too, but he’s never touched it. He watches Queenie and Grindelwald drink it in the evening of their first day while he stands crouched behind the ajar door. They talk quietly, warm light casting them in hues of gold. They’re beautiful. Queenie must know he’s there, but she keeps his pretense. Grindelwald glances at him, smiles, and curves his hand to call him closer.

He flees.

His room feels empty and too big, its eastern side open to the mountain range, glass from ceiling to the floor. A shiver runs down his spine and he tries not to think of what might await out there, in this old country, the fever and the sprite. He turns the key in the door and draws the curtains, then he takes off his shoes and slips under the covers. The bed is bigger than any he’s ever slept in. There’s nothing familiar here, no comfort for him to crawl into or crane towards. Nagini is still in Paris, and home, home’s an ocean away, if America could ever be called that. He only has the clothes on his back and the adoption papers in his pocket, irrelevant now. Tomorrow, Grindelwald promised. He can still hear Nagini’s voice, and that of this woman and the man with the red hair he’d first seen in New York. And Paris, too, the melody of its street corners, flowers on every window sill, and despite the circus’ cruelty, there’d been beauty in that city. A last tide of spring while anywhere else winter had already neared. None of that here. They’d travelled from Paris through the southern German lands, before they reached Austria. The forests seem deeper in these two countries, colder, harsher like the language they speak, bare the romance of French or the bubbling rhythm of English. There’s something old in it, like memories of different gods who knew different, more secret things. He finds something of that reflected in Grindelwald, too. He’s sharp where Mr Graves had been soft, like antlers draped with velvet. He’s thought of him so often as he fled to Europe, unwillingly, helplessly. His voice distorted in his head, sometimes Mr Graves’, sometimes Grindelwald’s, sometimes both. Always hot beside his ear. _My special boy._ He won’t forgive him. But at night spectres come to him unbidden and in them he does, his forgiveness weighing like iron around his ankle. Those moments in New York’s alleyways are the safest he’s ever felt, no matter the uncertainty. He doesn’t feel safe now, though the creature in him is mighty. He tosses in the sheets, he dreams of him, his touch like benediction, his promises worthless. But tomorrow, surely tomorrow.

And when he’ll know, what then? Will he leave? Would Grindelwald let him? Does he want to.

A new name. A family. But what does he know of family, other than Mary Lou Barebone and sisters he’ll never see again? Still every time he hears someone come up the stairs, his whole body tenses, scarred fingers slipping to his belt, her curses on the tip of his tongue, her hatred its own thing blackening the world around him. He’s useless, he’s useless, he’s _useless_ , selfish, stupid ungrateful _child_ —

He starts awake. Sweat stands on his brow, heart pounding.

 _Good Morning,_ a quiet voice. Grindelwald.

He looks to him where he stands in the open door he’d locked last night.

_I heard you howl._

He pulls the covers to his chest, feels the warmth bleeding from him as he sits up.

_Don’t be afraid._

Grindelwald enters slowly, as if measuring every step. Perhaps he does.

_What do you want?_

_To help you, my boy._

_I just want_ —

_I know. But not now, like this. Come._

Grindelwald kneels beside his bed and a soupçon tints the air. It’s Graves, it’s him, it’s a nine months ago in New York.

_I—_

_It’s alright._

Grindelwald leans in and smiles. He wants it to be real.

_I need to know._

_Yes. You will know. But shower first, dress, eat something._

_I’m not hungry._

_You’ll feel better nonetheless. Come, come._

With that Grindelwald stands, smiles and leaves.

_I will see you later._

Aurelius Dumbledore. The name rings in his skull. It is their secret for now, to all others he must be Credence still. Aurelius. The name does not feel like his own, not yet, in his mind too he _is_ still Credence, but he is _not_ Credence, Mary Lou Barebone’s weak foster child. He’s...him. He’s powerful. The Obscurus inside him carries fury and the force to destroy almost anything. Anyone. He’s not sure if it makes him a warrior or a weapon to Grindelwald. He weighs the wand in his hand, colour of charcoal, smooth. Something inside him had fallen into place when Grindelwald had given it to him and told him of his brother’s betrayal, he’d known what to do, how to channel the magic and press it to a singular torrent that reshaped the landscape. The air that streams in through the broken window smells of cinders and leaves wet with rain.

He stares outside for a long time, until he’s trembling from the cold, like when he’d been handing out pamphlets in indifferent streets with people who would not spare him a glance.

Queenie comes in at some point and drapes a blanket over his shoulders.

_Come now, love._

She steers him away and with a twirl of her own wand repairs the window.

There’s commotion in Nurmengard. Steps echo from stairwells, making his heart pound, voices speaking with harsh consonants and midst it, Grindelwald.

He does not dare join what is happening in the main hall, but he crouches near the balustrade to spy down on them. It’s a meeting of sorts, though Queenie is not there, not yet returned from whatever errand she is running. He harkens when all quiet and Grindelwald takes the floor. It’s the first time he hears him speak German, his voice is lower in it, sharper, but no less silken. The crowd around him consists of men and women all dressed in black, faces grim as they listen. An aura throbs about them, same as the aurors in New York who’d tried to take him down, same as Mary Lou as she’d taken the belt. Righteousness. A low whimper escapes him, and he bends lower, clutching the curved columns that carry the balustrade. An elegant man approaches Grindelwald, and Grindelwald touches his arm, his shoulder, leans in while he speaks sweetly.

Something sears through him as he watches it, he swallows, but the feeling does not fade, it only mounts when the man smiles at Grindelwald, mirroring his touch. Heat flares inside him, the kindlings of fury and a bone-deep thing he’s known all his life, ugly and abject and all consuming. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to watch. He leaves his hiding place and returns to his room where his wand lies on his desk, grabs it and clings to it and the potency it gives him as he sits in the corner, knees to his chin, swaying back and forth, eyes pressed shut. He’s not Aurelius, the _golden_ , he’s nothing like that at all.

Evening brings rain and the growl of thunder.

A knock on his door makes him wince. He has not moved from the corner. The door opens and Grindelwald comes in.

_I brought you something._

He holds a tattered book in his hands, leathern cover and yellow pages.

_Don’t you want to know what it is?_

He slips the wand into his pocket and slowly gets up, tries not to make a noise as he straightens his aching limbs. Grindelwald waits for him to near before he stretches out his hands, offering the book.

_It’s a book of spells. I thought you might enjoy it. I’ll teach them to you if you like._

He glances up at Grindelwald, then takes the book. He’s wanted to learn for so long, has wondered about it, and finally... Their fingers touch and Grindelwald catches his gaze. _You’re so special._ Grindelwald steps forward and his own breath catches, he can’t move away from him, but adrenaline shoots through his veins, he wants to flee, he wants to be _safe_ from this.

 _Hush._ Grindelwald says and reaches out, framing his face with his palms. _Aurelius,_ he says. And it’s different to how he used to say _Credence_. It’s different, and he wants it, but the memory of how he’d hit him when he’d thought Modesty was the Obscurial is indelible, how he’d spoken to him, what he’d said—

 _You’re hurting,_ Grindelwald says. _I understand. I was wrong to treat you as I did, but believe me it was only for the sorrow I felt, the haste and necessity. Because you were dying, and I knew it, though I knew not it was_ you _. I just wanted to save you from the pain you were in. To show you a better future and give you a chance to confront your brother._

Grindelwald draws him in until his head rests against his shoulder. He’s warm, he smells of earth and green apples. He lets himself be held, and he wants to forget, wants to just _be_ . Here. With him. Grindelwald strokes over his hair, then places a hand on his nape, fingers curling over the base of his skull. _We will make a better world, you and I. One in which children will not have to fear magic, won’t have to hide as you did. Suffer as you did. And I will keep you safe. I will protect you, Aurelius. My boy. My rare, beautiful boy._

His lungs cord up and he slowly raises an arm to grasp the cloth of Grindelwald’s jacket. Then he lets go. Tenses.

Grindelwald slackens the embrace, steps back to look at him.

 _You lied to me._ He grabs the book with both hands and walks away from Grindelwald, not turning around.

A glint flickers over Grindelwald’s eyes.

 _I did,_ he says. _And I hope you may forgive me. Good night, my boy._

He sits by the bed, back against its frame, blanket around his shoulders and reads through the book. A stamp on the first page promotes it as an old school book. The only thing left unsmudged of the stamp reads _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_. Where is this Hogwarts? Did Grindelwald go there? Will he ever go there? The book smells dusty and there are faded notes in pencil on some of its dog-eared pages. He tastes the spells on his tongue as he mouths them but does not dare to take out his wand. He flips further through it and in the last chapters a yellowed note sticks between the pages.

_Dear Gellert,_

_You really ought to stop stealing my brother’s books, however small a use he might make of them._

_Always yours,_

_Albus._

The A of Albus is written with a symbol. It’s the same as the one Grindelwald gave to him as a necklace. Something runs cold in his blood. He fingers the note, thumb pressing over the name, then he shoves it back between the pages and throws the book down. He douses the light and goes to bed.

He dreams of the forests outside, of swaying trees coming alive with groans and creaks, and the sound of galloping over ground, five black horses with trembling nostrils wet with breath, wide bloodshot eyes, chewing nervously on the tinged metal of their bridle. They’re dragging a carriage, and inside waits the sprite king, gauzy like a wisp of fog, and his hands are long and warm as fever, cold as the frost that breaks the ground. And he is there, no Obscurus for him to call upon, no magic in his marrow, and he moves closer and closer without meaning to. Horror seizes him and still he goes on. The carriage door scrapes open. The trees rustle, the horses neigh. He climbs in.

Flash of lightning.

He tears his eyes open, heart racing, cold sweat on his brow. He’s up and walking before he knows it, stumbling through dark corridors and outside thunder cracks the sky, louder than he’s ever heard. He flinches every times it strikes after lightning illumes the hallway. Thunder again, then silence and darkness. The veins of lightning still blaze on his retina, and for a terrifying moment he’s blind before he sees a sliver of orange glow on the floor. It’s Grindelwald’s room. He stutters to a halt, clutches the door handle, pushes down, but does not open it. His breath goes hard. Then there’s the noise of a chair being drawn back. Steps follow. The door opens. Candle light warms Grindelwald’s features, glimmers on the stretch of neck and chest where he’s undone the buttons of his shirt.

 _Did the storm frighten you?_ he murmurs and steps out of his room, giving him only a glance inside, a desk with a skull and a small weathered box with fading letters _lemon drops_ written on it. Grindelwald shuts the door.

_It’s alright. This is a strange country. The sky and the trees ail many who are foreign. Come. I’ll bring you back to bed._

Grindelwald puts a hand on his lower back and gently steers him through the corridors until they reach his room. They go in and he lets himself be lead to his bed. He sits and draws the covers over his thighs.

_Good boy._

Grindelwald is about to turn around, when he catches his sleeve. He lets go of it immediately.

_Please…don’t leave._

There’s something serpentine in Grindelwald’s smile, but his voice is soft. _Of course._

He bends over him and strokes his cheek. _Do you want me to tell you a story?_ And before he can answer, he whispers, warm against his cheek, _Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?_

The words mean nothing to him, but Grindelwald’s voice lulls him almost to slumber, and he thinks of the warmth of his embrace, how it felt when he held him the first time, how he’d wanted to be near him forever. None of it true. He reaches out for him anyway. Just a tug on his shirt, but Grindelwald leans in and his heart starts racing. Lips drag over his cheek, press against his temple, stopping the breath in his lungs. His whole body comes alive as Grindelwald strokes two fingers over his jaw, down his neck.

_You should sleep. There’s much to be done tomorrow._

Grindelwald smiles, then turns around and leaves. He stares after him, hot all over from his touches and he just _wants_. He rolls over onto his stomach and presses his face into the pillow, praying that he might come back. Grindelwald doesn’t.

Golden and red light slants from the window sill and he comes awake slowly. A quiet croak follows and he discerns the shape of a bird. The phoenix. The chick he raised when he was in Paris, now in its true form. It looks at him, black eyes filled with an awareness and intelligence that makes him shiver. He gets out of bed and approaches the creature. Its long, golden tail whips aside, catching his forearm and leaving a burning brand. He flinches and the bird caws, talons flexing. It hops towards him, and stretches out its neck. It’s not an attack. He swallows and grazes his fingers against the scarlet feathers. It tilts its head, curving into his hand and a single tear rolls from its eye. It drops onto his forearm and the pain ceases. Awe fills him. He looks into its eyes again. It caws once more and nudges his hand. He takes a deep breath and holds his arm out. It glances at him for a heartbeat, then climbs onto his forearm and with a flutter comes to perch on his shoulder, keeping its tail feathers raised and away. He can feel its warmth and the weight of its body and something inside him aches to protect it.

 _Let’s go get some breakfast,_ he whispers and its grip of the talons on his shoulder tightens, then releases.

Queenie is downstairs in the kitchen, sipping coffee.

 _Oh!_ She exclaims as she sees him and the bird. _Oh how wonderful, Credence._

The bird ruffles its feathers ever so slightly, cawing at her.

 _Would you like some breakfast? Here._ She picks up her wand from the table, dreamily tabs it against her lips and swings it. Pastries he doesn’t even know the names of appear, assembling and being baked into form as he watches, and also a bowl with nuts and seeds materialises. The phoenix leans forward and takes flight to hop onto the table and sort through the seeds with its golden beak. It picks out the pumpkin ones, cranes its neck to look at him and croaks.

 _Sit down, love._ Queenie says and smiles at him, it’s bright, as everything about her is to him, but there’s something in her gaze he has seen before. In the mirror.

 _Why,_ he asks, but has to repeat himself to be heard, _Why are you here?_

 _Me?_ She looks at him and her smile falters. _I’m here…I’m here...for love._

_Love?_

_Well yes._ Something unspoken fills the space between her words. She looks at him with wide, searching eyes _. For a world where anyone might love whom they wish to. Where love…is never crazy. You know. We all feel it, you do, I do, and he does. That’s why I’m here._

He sits down and takes a croissant from the mounting plate of pastries. It’s still warm when he bites it. It reminds him of Paris, of Nagini.

 _You miss your friend_.

He nods, averting his eyes and sets the pastry down on a plate and cuts it with fork and knife, like Mary Lou taught him.

 _I miss my sister,_ Queenie says quietly. _She’s a strong person and very kind._

_Why is she not here?_

_She thinks...this is a mistake._

_Why?_

_She doesn’t see what I see._ There’s pain in her voice and it is unexpected in away he cannot explain.

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

_It’s alright, sweetheart. Let’s just eat, yeah?_

_Yeah._

Breakfast ends in silence and when he leaves, the bird stays with Queenie, pecking at the newly filled bowl of pumpkin seeds as she strokes the creature’s neck and it ruffles its feathers, cawing at her.

He looks back and warmth blooms in his chest. A glow lies over Queenie, blurring all edges, she’s the kindest person he’s ever met.

He goes back upstairs, passing by locked rooms with broad doors and iron handles. Sometimes he thinks voices echo from within, swallowed by the black fortress walls that are matte and smooth and exude the ozone tingle of lightning caught in stone. It’s not a benign place.

He reaches Grindelwald’s door and stops before it. It’s ajar and Grindelwald is not alone. He swallows, cowers and listens.

 _—must get it back. Should it fall into the wrong hands, and it probably has already, it could be disastrous for our cause. Get it back or it will be you facing the consequences of such failure._ Rage bleeds from Grindelwald’s tone, but that is not all, there’s a wounded urgency...like desperation. Grindelwald’s head snaps to the side. He freezes. Grindelwald strides towards him, gaze tempestuous. He shuts the door in his face. He stumbles back, as if struck. No thought in his head as he hurries back to his room, and finds himself on his knees, searching for the book of spells. He reads and reads, but the words smudge before his eyes while his heart hammers in his chest.

It’s not long until steps approach and Grindelwald comes in. He’s calm and composed now.

_I am sorry for before. There is a bad situation I am trying to resolve._

He doesn’t answer Grindelwald, just strokes his index finger over the pages, then fingers the note that’s still in there.

 _Who is Albus?_ he asks without looking up.

Grindelwald doesn’t reply. Then quietly, _What?_

He raises his gaze. Grindelwald stands before him, face pale, all composure fallen from his features. He’s raw before him, like he has never seen him. Just because of that _name_.

 _Dear Gellert,_ the note read, and _Always yours_. He stares at him and an ugly feeling churns inside, bittering his marrow. He holds out the yellowed note and Grindelwald’s eyes widen. He snatches it from his hands and a quiver goes through him, he pockets the note without another word, then turns his back. He watches how Grindelwald’s rib cage expands as he breathes in, how his shirt stretches over his scapulas and the ridge of his spine. It feels as if an eternity passes, before he says, _Some betrayals...are impossible to forgive._ His voice pales like a fading photograph. He’s lying. Then he straightens and turns around. He comes closer, and his lips twitch, stretch over his teeth, revealing a sliver of white.

_Come, my boy. It’s time I teach you._

They go down and leave the fortress and Grindelwald leads him towards the line of trees. Wind rustles the branches high above the slender trunks of the pines, bark almost black near the ground turning orange the further it comes to the top. It’s dazzling, almost hypnotic, and there’s Grindelwald’s hand on his back, wand in the other, and he looks like he’s part of it all, this forest and this dark soil.

_Here._

Grindelwald stops and then raises his wand.

_Now. Do exactly as I say._

The hours pass them by in what seems like a heartbeat. Grindelwald shows him spells and tricks, hexes that will take months for him to learn, years perhaps, but it doesn’t matter, he’s here and he’s learning and the magic in his blood finally finds form. He will have to practise the words, the gestures, the emotion of it, as Grindelwald tells it while he corrects the angle of his wrist, his fingers warm in the chill air and his body behind him pledging a safety he’s only known in Grindelwald’s arms. A hand on his waist, breath in his neck, and Grindelwald murmurs, _Try it again, like this._ And positions his hand, shifts his stance, and then, _Now, Aurelius._ The spell blooms and the thread of power that runs through him is nothing like that of the Obscurus, it is focussed and controlled and beautiful. He stares at Grindelwald and Grindelwald smiles. He lowers his wand and turns in his arm, seeking his embrace before he knows it. Grindelwald draws him in.

_My gorgeous boy._

_Do you hate me?_ he murmurs.

_Of course not._

_Are you...a bad man?_

Grindelwald tilts his chin up with the tips of his fingers.

_No._

They return to the fortress and Grindelwald follows him to his room. The sky dims outside. Grindelwald summons candles with a flick of his fingers, then slides his hand into his coat pocket and takes out an apple, not big or supple, it’s a misshapen, natural thing. And a knife. He snaps the blade open and starts to cut a piece from the apple, then beckons him near and he obeys, parting his lips for the piece of fruit. A sour taste bursts over his tongue as he chews. Grindelwald smiles and takes a bite from the apple directly, sound of it like cracking a bone.

 _We are not meant to be sweet,_ Grindelwald says. _Not meant to be bred to change and benefit the muggle world. We were meant to be us, Aurelius. No-one else._

He can barely breathe, looking at him. He’s radiant and something wild glints in his eyes and he’s fearful of it. He’s too beautiful to be kind. But Grindelwald is tender as he strokes over his jaw and slips the knife back into his coat pocket, then throws the apple aside, smiling, and walks him backwards.

_Tell me what you want._

_I want to know more about my brother._

_And you shall._

_I want...a place in this world._

_You will have it._

His calves hit the bed frame. Grindelwald’s breath on his face. He shivers and leans into him without thought. Grindelwald’s arm wraps around him.

_I want you to be happy, Aurelius._

Lips drag against his ear, pooling heat in his belly and a haze over his eyes. He feels his trousers tighten and his erection press against Grindelwald’s thigh and he breathlessly chokes out _I’m sorry, I’m sorry—_

 _There’s no need to be ashamed._ Grindelwald strokes his free hand down his side. _Do you want me to touch you there?_

He swallows and stutters, _Yes._

Grindelwald’s warm hand curves over the bulge in his trousers and his knees buckle, but Grindelwald keeps him upright with his arm.

_Let’s lie down._

They do and then Grindelwald is beside him and whispers, _Do you want me to take a more familiar form? Would you wish me to be Percival Graves?_

 _N-no. I want...I want you to be_ you _._

_My good boy._

Grindelwald pulls him back against his chest, snakes an arms around him and starts to unbutton his shirt. He keens quietly and moves back against him as Grindelwald’s fingers open his belt buckle and then slip inside. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt, he’s only ever dared to rut against the mattress in half-sleep, because the voice of Mary Lou had shrieked in his head, _it’s the devil, it’s the devil._ He doesn’t care anymore. Grindelwald kisses his neck, bites but only barely, while he wraps his hand around him. A moan wrenches from his mouth as Grindelwald starts moving his hand up and down. It feels so good, so so so good. He presses his eyes shut and shivers, reaching behind him where Grindelwald presses against him. A soft exhale against his neck, then Grindelwald uses his free hand to open his own trousers to let him curls his fingers around the growing erection. It’s hot and hard in his hand and he wonders how it’d be to...to kiss Grindelwald there. To put it in his mouth.

Grindelwald shoves his trousers lower. _Spread your legs, my boy._

He does. Grindelwald shifts behind him, then heat settles between his thighs. He moans as Grindelwald thrusts forward, sliding against the underside of his testicles. He turns his head just in time to watch Grindelwald lick his finger and then strokes over his chest and presses over one of his nipples. The sensation is dazzling. He feels himself getting slicker in Grindelwald’s other hand.

 _So sensitive,_ Grindelwald murmurs and thrusts between his thighs again, and this time he shoves himself back against Grindelwald, easing them into a quick rhythm. Is this how it is done? Or could he feel him...inside? Could they be that close? Grindelwald starts moving his hand up and down and red blazes behind his eyelids. Grindelwald is so warm. He wants this to last forever. The heat builds and builds and he moans desperately and then he turns around to look at Grindelwald. And it aches to look at him, almost _hurts_ —

_It’s alright, my boy. I have you. Let go._

Flaring white extinguishes all thoughts. Bliss strings him out and on and heat pulses off him with every heartbeat while he slowly comes back to himself.

Grindelwald is watching him. He starts smiling only as their gazes lock. Shame heats his cheeks as he becomes aware of how he looks, half-undressed and _vile_.

 _Hush,_ Grindelwald strokes over where his hair sticks to his forehead.

_I’m…I’m..._

_You’re perfect, Aurelius._

He swallows hard and suddenly tears quell at his eyes, he tries to brush them away, he feels so pathetic, but Grindelwald pulls him in until his head rests against Grindelwald’s chest. A slow heartbeat.

_It’s alright, my boy. There is no reason for shame. We did nothing wrong._

He clings to Grindelwald, unable to reply and Grindelwald holds him until sleep takes him.

The bed is warm, but empty when he wakes. It’s still dark outside, room illuminated by a single flickering candle. Grindelwald sits on his desk, half turned away, staring at a piece of paper in his hand. The note.

He can’t help to make s soft noise and Grindelwald turns around. Something shifts in his posture from relaxed to more controlled.

_Go back to sleep._

_Will you...come back?_

Grindelwald’s lips twitch before he smiles. _Of course._

He watches how Grindelwald folds the note into his pocket before he glides from the desk and makes his way back to the bed. There’s a strain about the way he moves, but his arms are so inviting when he lies down next to him. He does not want to think about it. He breathes in his scent, and it is all he knows of home.

The days pass them by in a rush while a storm once more brews above the tower of Nurmengard. There’ve been comings and goings, things are afoot. Perhaps it is about what he overheard that one night, the thing Grindelwald lost, perhaps something else entirely, but it feels like departure is ahead. The thought rises a quiet sense of dread in him, he does not want to leave this place where most days it is just him and Queenie and Grindelwald, suspended in time and far from a world he does neither understand nor love. And from choices he’s not sure he can take back. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

He dreams of New York, he dreams of Paris and the sea, of faces from his past life and misery clings to him till morning breaks. But the faces grow duller with every passing hour that he learns more of magic, as incantations resound in his skull, a constant stream of words that Grindelwald teaches him and that still taste of him on his own tongue. Touch is ever between them, Grindelwald’s hands on his skin, the reassuring weight of his body atop his own. They sleep together every other night, and when they don’t longing keeps him up till the witching hours. Slowly he learns this language of bodies too, and it becomes more than just hands that caress. One night he asks what he’s thought of for so long, he wants to use his mouth on Grindelwald. He’s sloppy and the hammering of his heart beats all the way to his throat, but Grindelwald’s hand rests upon his head and he murmurs soft encouragement and praise, and then, afterwards, Grindelwald does it to him. He never knew his body could feel that way, but it is more than that.

The storm erupts, lightning forking over the sky and thunder rumbles and cracks while rain whips against the windows and the whole world is drowned in darkness.

They lie in bed together and something’s different tonight, Grindelwald has conjured no light, and kisses him on the mouth for the first time. He clings to Grindelwald and the scent of ozone and rain tints the air between them. He wants Grindelwald inside and speaks the words like a spell and Grindelwald kisses him again, stroking over his jaw to his neck, spans his fingers over the curve of his rib cage, then he carefully turns him onto his stomach. There’s reverence in Grindelwald’s touch as he dips his fingers along his spine.

 _I’ll be gentle with you_ , he murmurs.

And he is. It hurts at first, but Grindelwald uses his oiled fingers to prepare him and it’s strange and intimate and then stars burst behind his lids and his body coils in pleasure.

_Does it feel good?_

_Y-yes. So good._

Grindelwald continues, adds more fingers until he has him writhing and moaning, fingers digging into the sheets. He wants it, god he wants him inside. Warm breath by his ear.

 _I want to feel you, A_ — Grindelwald exhales sharply. _Aurelius._

A kiss to his neck. Grindelwald spreads his legs and he can feel the hot length of him slide over his thigh. Then he pushes inside. It hurts and it hurts, but he does not rush it, strokes over his spine and whispers until his body adjusts to the slow drag of in and out and sweat beads on his back. He moans and shivers underneath him, he feels so close to him he wants to cry. Grindelwald kisses his nape again and laces their fingers together. Something wells up inside him that thieves him of air and he sobs without sound. He loves him.

The storm has dwindled to a faint rush of rain. They lie next to each other, but Grindelwald’s gaze is distant. He looks older like that, pale and worn. It frightens him in a different way than his power or his guile. He’s unreachable now.

_My...my brother. You said, he seeks to destroy me._

Grindelwald turns to him.

 _He fears you._ A heartbeat. _And he should._

_Why does he want to destroy me?_

_He wants to ruin all we wish to achieve for this world. He believes we should bow and break under the laws that forbid us to be who we truly are. To remain slaves, as he would._

_Who is he?_

Grindelwald stares outside. _He used to be...my friend._

_Friend?_

_His name is Albus Dumbledore._

_The note,_ he whispers.

Grindelwald turns back to him, eyes shadowed in the twilight. _Yes._

He feels cold all of a sudden. He swallows and pulls the covers to his chin.

They don’t speak for a long while. He doesn’t know how much time passes, only that the rain still patters against the windows, that it’s dark and the wind howls outside. He’s near him and yet. The impatience in his eyes, how he’d hit him, what he’d said in New York. He has not forgotten, but he still feels it. He still feels it. 

 _The story,_ he mumbles, already half-snared in slumber. _The story you told me._

_Yes._

_What was it about?_

_The sprite, a father and a child._

He seeks for Grindelwald’s hand under the covers.

_How does it end?_

Grindelwald smiles and takes his hand and then pulls it to his lips.  

_The child dies._

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought. Comments keep me goin', lads.


End file.
